and it's evil how it's got me
by kelly.rockwell
Summary: Chris/Lydia. "There's nothing impure about how he looks at Lydia Martin the first time they meet. She's strewn herself over his daughter's bed and she greets him with an edge of flirtation in her tone, but he steadfastly pretends not to notice. He's a happily married man, and she's his daughter's best friend. And for a long time, that's enough."


It has to be understood that he fought it.

That he clung to his morals and he denied, buried, and refused to grant sunlight to the corruptness that rattled around his skull. Ignored the ache in his gut when he saw her; clamped down on every urge to reach out and touch.

And it should be mentioned that there's a difference between recognizing attractiveness versus being attracted, and an even more important distinction to be made between being attracted and acting on it. There are semantics to be considered, and sometimes they help. And sometimes they don't.

There's nothing impure about how he looks at Lydia Martin the first time they meet. She's strewn herself over his daughter's bed and she greets him with an edge of flirtation in her tone, but he steadfastly pretends not to notice. He's a happily married man, and she's his daughter's best friend. And for a long time, that's enough.

After Victoria, though, that facade starts to slip. He's mourned the loss of his wife, has grieved and sought revenge and then made peace. And when all that's left is Allison and bitter emptiness, he focuses on Allison. He tries to leave his life as a hunter behind, but it finds him, and it brings with it a more worthy distraction than whatever bottle of liquor he might've been contemplating drowning himself in behind closed doors.

And then there's Lydia. She's over more often than she's not, and it seems like there's no place in the apartment he can go where her voice isn't being carried to his ears, where he isn't sucking in greedy lungfuls of her vanilla-laced perfume. And it gets bad, it really does. It starts to scare him.

Because some nights she stays for dinner, and the three of them sit around and talk shop and Lydia thinks it's cute to ask him for advice about boys from her school, tells him she wants a real man's opinion.

One night when she's leaving, her fingers curl around his bicep when she says, "Goodnight, Mr. Argent."

He starts to tell her to call him Chris, but then he realizes what he's about to say and he closes his mouth and forces a tight smile instead. He tells her goodnight, and she's out the door in a flurry of strawberry blonde hair.

And late that night when he's in bed and he's got his hand wrapped around his cock, he's thinking about red lips and the hem of a white dress that rose uncomfortably high, but Lydia calls him Mr. Argent instead of Chris. He's not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He's so guilty that he can't look either of the girls in the eye the next day, but he does it again that night.

Chris knows he's wrong. He feels it in him like a sickness, churning and clawing at his insides when he's around her. All of the shame and self-loathing his body can manufacture courses through his veins, creeps hot up the back of his neck when she smiles sweetly in his direction, bats her perfectly curled eyelashes as she looks up at him.

He walks a thin line between justification and demoralization; reassures himself that it's legal in some states, that maybe that makes it okay. Not here, but somewhere. Maybe. But that thought is always quickly followed by the reminder that she's his daughter's best friend, that they're in high school together, that if she's even seventeen then she's just barely seventeen, and that he's a filthy creep for even splitting hairs about it.

He thinks of Allison. Of how furious he'd be if a man more than twice her age had thoughts about her like the ones he has about Lydia. Of what he might be capable of doing to such a man. Of what a hypocrite he's turning into.

When the incident happens at school with the birds, he goes to get the girls and he doesn't hesitate nearly long enough before he's reaching out to put his hand to the small of Lydia's back. It's innocent, he tells himself. Comforting. Parental, he thinks, and he instantly hates himself for it.

Because Lydia trusts him. She asks him questions and she shares his space and she never leaves without telling him goodbye. She's Allison's best friend. She's a part of their family. Maybe she really does look to him like a father figure, and maybe that's also the worst of it.

Chris stops spending time with the two of them. Takes to staying in his room or study when he knows Lydia is there, and he feels like a recluse but he knows that he deserves it for all of his depraved thoughts.

It's a week or so of that, and Chris still isn't able to pry her from his thoughts. The time alone doesn't do anything to help him, either. He doesn't have her to look at anymore, and that should be a relief, but it's not. She's on a constant loop in his head, and he tries to resist but one day he breaks down and starts palming himself through his jeans while he's in the middle of deciphering an ancient text, and he thinks then that maybe he's losing his mind.

Is it better if it's not just lust? Because when Chris allows himself to think about it, he concludes that he doesn't believe that's all it is. That in his own sick way, he might be harboring real feelings for Lydia. But isn't that what all the scumbags say?

There's a knock on their door one day that Allison's out, and he opens it to find Lydia standing alone in the hallway.

"Allison's not here," he says a bit brusquely, one hand clutching tightly to the door frame and the other still holding onto the knob. He doesn't trust himself enough to move them, and he's well aware of how sad that is.

Lydia nods softly. "I know," she says, and she's stepping in closer. Chris takes a step back, moves out of the doorway if only just to put some distance between them and Lydia walks in, soft click of her heels on the hardwood floor telling him that he's just made the wrong choice.

"Is something wrong?" Chris asks, and he looks at her with genuine concern, keeping an amount of space between them that he thinks is pretty damn respectable.

She tilts her head to the side, looks at him like he's just said something amusing. One hand is on her hip and she's scrutinizing him with her stare, and he has the good sense to feel indecent enough to look away.

"I'm not some vapid, oblivious teenage girl," she tells him, and he can hear her heels again, just a few steps towards him. He doesn't like how much he wants her to come closer.

He lets himself look at her, smiles softly. "I never thought you were."

She's shaking her head, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and God, Chris shouldn't be looking at her mouth.

"What I mean," she says, closing the distance between them until she's uncomfortably close, looking up through her eyelashes at him, "is that I see the way you look at me."

He's hot all over. Been called on the carpet by the object of his perverted fantasies, and he's a little more frozen in place than he'd like to admit, but his mouth starts to open to defend himself anyway, and she raises a hand to silence him.

"Don't," she says, voice soft because she's close enough that she doesn't really need to speak up. And Chris should be moving, should be backing away from her, should be apologizing. But he's rooted in place under her stare, and he's not sure if he's mortified or mesmerized. "If you were _really_ paying attention to me, then you'd also have noticed the way that I look at you."

He doesn't know what to say. Because he's certain that he's given her no shortage of attention, but he's never noticed her look at him that way. His lips are parting to protest, but then he thinks back to countless smiles and soft little touches that he'd written off as either accidental or innocent.

_Oh_, he thinks. _Oh no._

She's pressed against him before he can react, and that's bullshit because he's trained to kill werewolves. Proficient at anticipating movement from things much faster and stronger than her, but he lets himself be cornered by her, crowded up against the door. His hands find her waist without his own permission, and she smiles up at him, leans up slowly to connect their lips.

And, God, he's imagined it so many more times than he should have, and every single time his mind goes blank. But in reality, his head is spinning. She's not wearing lipstick, he notes. Not even a sheen of gloss. Just bare, inviting lips. Like she was anticipating being kissed. And, fuck, that's about all it takes for him to finally let go of whatever is left of his sanity.

When their lips touch, he's ready. His arms snake around her and pull her tighter against his chest, and his mouth moves slowly against hers, savoring the feel of her full lips and the taste of her tongue.

Lydia moans into his mouth, and he isn't prepared for the way it rips through him. He tangles a hand in her long, silky hair and he licks into her mouth like he's starving for it, because he is.

He lifts her up off the floor and she goes easily, wrapping her legs around his waist and they're still kissing as he walks them down the hallway and deposits her into his bed. He hesitates then, pauses and just stares breathlessly at her, and he wishes he could say that he's having second thoughts, but he's just trying to memorize every little bit of how perfect she looks against his sheets.

She reaches out to ruck his shirt up, and he tugs it off and throws it, moves to cover her body with his. Their lips collide again and her nails are grazing down his back as he sinks down against her, rolls his hips because he can't help it. She arches up into him, and he's both embarrassed and gratified that he's achingly hard against her thigh.

Lydia breaks the kiss and they're both panting; she husks out a _please_, and that's it. Her dress comes off, then his jeans. He lays open-mouthed kisses to her neck as he unfastens her bra, is distantly aware of it falling down her arms and hitting the floor as he rakes his eyes over her. She's lovely, all pale skin and soft curves and he's helpless, dragged down into her embrace.

His lips are everywhere, kissing along her collarbone, mouthing down the outer curve of her breast. He laves his tongue over a nipple and her hand goes to the back of his neck, holds him there while he teases her.

She's writhing underneath of his touch not long after, and Chris isn't sure which of them is closer to begging when he finally reaches for the side table, pulls out a condom and kicks his boxer briefs down his legs.

Lydia puts the condom on him, and when his face registers surprise, she smiles fondly at him and rolls her eyes. "It's not my first rodeo," she says, and he's not sure if he's thankful or jealous, but he lets himself be pulled between her thighs anyway.

He kisses her again, can't stop kissing her, and when she's ready she nods against his lips and he presses slowly in, starting a tediously gentle pace of in and out until she digs her nails into his back and fairly well demands that he go faster.

And he does. She rocks her hips up to meet his thrusts and they're moving in perfect unison, moaning and panting and Chris is certain this is better than his wildest fantasies, if only because she wants him, too. And it's still wrong, but she feels so good wrapped around him that he forgets to care.

Her legs snake around his waist and he lifts her up a little, thrusts hard and fast into her and he lets one hand dip between them, rubs quick circles with his thumb on her clit and her thighs are trembling, nails digging crescents into his back. She arches against him and lets out a gorgeous, drawn out moan as she comes, full-body shuddering against him as she rides out the last of it.

One, two, three more deep thrusts and he's following, clutching at her desperately. He falls against her, boneless and breathless and she wraps her arms around him, kisses his temple.

After they've cleaned up he pulls Lydia into his arms, wraps her up tight and buries his face in her hair. He knows he's going to regret this later, once the afterglow fades and he's left with all of the guilt.

But Lydia is beautiful and brilliant and everything that he can't escape, and right now, forgetting how to run feels like the best plan.

"Stop thinking," she tells him, presses her lips softly to his.

And he does. For now.


End file.
